


What would you think of me, if you read my diary?

by raisesomehale



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek Hale has a diary, Derek Takes Care Of Stiles, Derek's Life Is Hard, Fluffy Ending, Hurt Derek, M/M, Stiles Takes Care Of Derek, so much fluff tbh, under all the feels you find fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-06-21
Packaged: 2017-12-15 16:24:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raisesomehale/pseuds/raisesomehale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Distantly he feels his shirt being ripped open, but he can barely recognize anything other than the hands currently touching his face. The touches range from cupping his jaw, brushing over his forehead, and pushing his hair back, even though his hair isn't long enough to be in the way.</p><p>They're the only hands that make sense, so when they start banging on his chest he tries to focus on why they're doing that, why they are there of all places.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What would you think of me, if you read my diary?

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so suaine wrote [this,](http://suaine.tumblr.com/post/53423871707/there-are-times-that-i-think-that-if-derek-hale) and in the midst of my tears that are made up of Derek Hales life, this happened.
> 
> I wrote it at 3:30 in the morning and I'm beginning to think that's when I get most of my shit done.
> 
> This is unbeta'd and just really fluffy in some parts, and then really feelsy in others.
> 
> (Again: embarrassingly unbeta'd so don't be afraid to point out any mistakes)
> 
> -
> 
> _This work was written and posted for my own, and the readers entertainment. Therefore I do **not** give anyone associated with Teen Wolf, (be it PR, production, the writers, the crew, the cast, press teams, etc.,) permission to extract excerpts from this story in order to be read aloud of shared publicly. I also do not give any third party websites, (be it Goodreads, ebooks-tree, etc.) permission to take what I have written and post it on their sites. Furthermore, I wish for my works to remain **only** where I have posted them, so they may be enjoyed and read amongst fans and no where else._

He doesn't know why he bought it, or further more - why he kept it once he left the store. It was a stupid impulse he shouldn't have acted on. It would have been easy to simply toss it into a dumpster, throw it out his car window.

When he sets his keys down on the desk, he takes it out of the shopping bag and tests the weight in the palm of his hands. The faded leather marks up when he drags one clawed finger down the front.

He places it in the bottom desk drawer and goes to put the frozen chicken in the fridge.

-

The moon light inches its way closer to where Derek is seated with every second it rises higher in the sky. He watches with tired eyes as it slinks over his boots, the tears in his jeans, and doesn't flinch when it illuminates his tattered shirt and still healing wounds. He keeps his head bowed, keeps his hands stacked limply in his lap.

The loft is quiet, always quiet, but it's the kind of silence that makes it dangerously easy to hear your own thoughts. Derek waits for the thoughts to come, waits for his mind to swim with them, but his brain follows his body's lead in being too tired to do anything other than just exist.

It makes the quiet almost suffocating and he desperately wants to move away from this chair, figure out how to fix this, needs to know if he even _wants_ to fix this.

His limbs feel like lead weights and moving seems too tiring at the moment anyway.

If Laura were here she would tell him to find something to fight for, anything to get him moving and pushing through to the end. He wonders if she had something to fight for the night she followed Peter into the woods.

His eyes do a tricky thing by glancing up towards the desk, towards the bottom drawer.

He takes out the book.

It stays blank for a long time, staring back at him, he wonders what he could even say.

He looks out the wall of windows for a long while, pen limp between his pointer and thumb as his other hand rests on the opposite side of the book.

**_I didn't die today._ **

He doesn't know if the voice in his head is happy or not when he writes this; doesn't remember when he lost track of the last time that he could have been grateful for the simple fact.

-

It becomes a sort of routine.

Whether he comes home after having death on his shoulder only hours before, or if his day was uneventful- he writes the same thing.

It doesn't feel like he needs to write anything other than that for a while. Doesn't feel the drive to record anything other than the fact that he's still existing.

-

Stiles is going to get them all killed.

Scratch that, Stiles is going to get himself killed.

Which, should really be a new development, but sadly, isn't.

“What the hell were you thinking?” You can practically hear Derek shake his head in the tone of his voice alone. He accidentally snaps the seal on the first aid kit when he rips it open, and Stiles sighs from above him like Derek's being overly dramatic.

“If I say I knew exactly what I was doing, will you stop asking me the same question over and over again?” He throws his arms out to the side to punctuate his words, but only gets half way before he's wincing and gently putting his arms back to rest at his side.

“If I wasn't there you would have died, Stiles. Dead, as in a big heap of _Virginal Sacrifice._ ”

With a scoff, Stiles shoots back: “I guess it's best that I keep you around then, huh?” And the tone of his voice is venomous, but the truth that lies in the beat of his heart stop Derek's pursuit of nursing for a second. When he looks up, Stiles is avoiding his gaze; the muscles in his jaws tensing.

When Derek has to take Stiles' shirt off to clean the wounds on his chest, he ducks his head to his work and pretends to ignore the pair of eyes watching him carefully.

That's the night he writes, _**Stiles is alive because I didn't die today**_.

-

The cuts and bruises have healed on Stiles' skin, leaving only a few scars that Derek can tell. But because Derek doesn't get to see Stiles with his shirt off on a daily basis, he'll have to recount when he gets the chance.

One of the scars, though, is just beneath the upper corner of his right cheekbone. It lifts just slightly whenever his smile is big enough to reach his eyes.

“Are you seriously trying to convince me that Seth Green was a better werewolf than Scott Speedman?” Derek asks, back to the driver side window as he happily chows down on his burger, facing Stiles in the passenger seat.

“Uh, yes! Michael wasn't even a real werewolf! He was a _hybr-_ I can't even look at you right now. Oz holds my heart and soul forever and ever.” He actually comically grabs at his chest like Oz is somewhere nestled against his heart.

“He was way too moody,” Derek grumbles, and Stiles actually goes slack jaw at that, before his eyes crinkle in the way that makes the scar lift slightly. He throws his head back to let out a laugh that makes Derek's heart thud-ump in his chest.

“Coming from the brood master his self? What's next, are you going to critic home décor and write a book on cooking?” Derek kicks Stiles' on the side of his thigh, causing half his body to fall off the seat; but Stiles only laughs harder.

“I'm a great fucking cook.” Derek says with as much conviction as he can manage through a mouthful of his burger.

“I'll believe it when I see it,” Stiles has stopped laughing, instead he has a soft smile as he watches Derek from the floor of the car where he had fallen in his laughing fit; legs still half on the seat.

Derek writes:

_**I didn't die today. Stiles bought me In N' Out.** _

-

“Whatcha gunna cook me?” Stiles asks as he takes a seat at the bar, head propped up in his hands. “Quiche? Crepes?” He inhales quickly and lets his hands fold on the counter, _“Creme Brulee?”_ Stiles wiggles his eyebrows and Derek swats at his head with his spatula.

Stiles laughter is the kind that fills a room, the ring of it it echoing over and over until it falls in on itself. It's a good addition to his quiet loft, his barren kitchen.

“How about an omelet, smart ass.”

And it's one hell of an omelet.

In the midst of eating it, Stiles looks up at Derek from the bar, mouth spilling with eggs, and asks if he has any flour.

The first batch of pancakes turn out horrible because Stiles puts too much flour in the batter.

"Hey! Don't underestimate my cooking prowess.”

"You mean lack there of?"

Stiles pinches a bit of flour in between his pointer finger and thumb and tosses it at Derek's face. It splats in the center, right over his nose. He freezes and lets his mouth fall open, blinking a few times and causing the flour to flit down from his eyelashes. Stiles is biting his hand in his attempt to muffle his laughter and Derek feels like he should regret every decision that lead to inviting Stiles Stilinski into his kitchen.

He doesn't.

The war starts when Derek grabs two hand fulls of flour and shoves them down Stiles' shirt - snaking an arm around Stiles' middle and holding him in place so he can't escape. Stiles retaliates by turning to look over his shoulder and blowing on Derek's face so that the flour there erupts in another rain of powder.

Derek adds 'flour' to his shopping list that day, and forgets to write in his book.

-

Derek doesn't have good in his life for a reason, doesn't try to have anything good in his life because once he has it, everything goes to hell.

Everything always goes to hell.

The Alpha Pack has cornered him in the local mall on a Sunday night, and Derek hopes the pack is home doing homework, getting a goodnight sleep for school in the morning; not being dragged into any of this anymore. No one has to die anymore, he wont allow it.

“You failed to deliver, Derek,” Deucalion tsk's, and stalks closer to where his bloodied form is lying on the floor by the indoor fountain. “I'm afraid,” he kneels down and drags his clawed fingers over Derek's cheek, whispers “you're of no use to me anymore.”

His world goes black.

-

_“Deeerr - ek”_

_“Drrr – k”_

_“Drrek you ass - le”_

_“Don - you fu ---- dare die --- me”_

Too much is going on- there are hands all over his body and his ears have difficulty filtering most of the words to make any kind of sense. It feels like everything is humming as the world spins him upside down, holding him in mid air while he can't be bothered to move any part of his body.

Distantly he feels his shirt being ripped open, but he can barely recognize anything other than the hands currently touching his face. The touches range from cupping his jaw, brushing over his forehead, and pushing his hair back, even though his hair isn't long enough to be in the way.

They're the only hands that make sense, so when they start banging on his chest he tries to focus on why they're doing that, why they are there of all places.

“Stiles-” that's a new voice.

“Where the fuck is Deaton- get Deaton! Why are you all just _standing there?_  Fucking do something- _he's dying._ ” Derek wonders who's dying, and somewhere in the back of his brain he wants to save who ever it is. He wants to make sure they don't die because he doesn't like how broken this voice sounds, thinks that it should never sound that way.

“Stiles- _Stiles,_ ” the pounding on his chest stops abruptly, and the other voice says, “I can't hear his heartbeat.” Not seconds after there's a noise, and it sounds so guttural, that Derek _has_ to know where it came from, because he has this overwhelming feeling like he wants to comfort whatever made that noise.

When he opens his eyes it's paired with a gasp for breath. There's a moment where he almost begins to choke on his own blood before the hands are back at his face, then fleeing down his neck and to his exposed chest, to his sides and the hands belong to _Stiles._ He helps Derek to turn so that he doesn't do something incredibly embarrassing like drown in his own blood, and he spits the liquid out on the mall floor.

After that there are many more hands on him, and when he blacks out this time it's with Stiles' hands gripping his upper arm and shoulder as he's lifted.

A thought hovers in the back of his mind, saying, **_i'll fight not to die today._**

-

He wakes to the smell of pancakes.

When he lifts his head he has a moment to be confused about where he is exactly, but there are pillows, sheets, warmth, and he's in his own bed. He lifts himself up with more difficulty than normal, probably a side effect to almost dying, and off the bed to follow the smell. He's been changed out of the torn and bloody clothing, and they've been replaced with the worn gray sweats he loves and a simple white t-shirt.

When he lifts himself off the bed, he pulls a black hoodie over his head and heads towards the smell.

The smell leads him into the kitchen where he's greeted with Stiles' back. There's no noise but the sizzling of the pancake batter as he pours it onto the griddle, a stack of pancakes probably as tall as him on the counter to his left, and the steady in and out of his breathing.

Derek doesn't know what to say, doesn't know if he wants to ruin the perfect silence with his voice. So he leans against the frame of the door instead and simply watches, because this feels an awful lot like home, smells an awful lot like pack, and he needs a moment to figure out if any of it is real or not.

Unfortunately, like always, Stiles didn't get the memo and turns to put the empty mixing bowl in the sink and nearly drops it when he spots Derek. He lets out a startled yelp.

“OH- my god,” while resting the mixing bowl against his hip, he puts his hand on his heart. Derek can hear it beating quickly, and he may smile just a little bit. “Oh, you think this is funny, I'm glad. You finding joy in almost giving me a heart attack is depressingly the best part of this entire week, so, don't let me rain on your parade.”

His eyebrows crease in worry and he asks, “Has something else happened while I was out?”  He can't remember anything happening other than the mall. Which he'll definitely be asking Stiles about later, when Stiles isn't setting the bowl down and turning to face Derek with a sad expression.

“Does anything else have to happen for it to be a bad week?” His voice is soft as it carries over the distance to Derek, sounding like he might actually want an answer to that. Derek doesn't know if he has an answer to give, so instead he looks down at his crossed arms and ignores when he hears Stiles move towards him. “You almost died, you know,” his voice is quiet again, almost reverent, and it confuses Derek, though he nods.

“Why do you have to be such a fucking self-sacrificing idiot,” and there’s the voice of Stiles he knows and loves - his gaze quickly snaps up to Stiles, his heart jack hammering into over time to find he's only mere inches away. He can smell his deodorant, and when he subtly takes in a deep breathe he can smell- he can smell his own soap, his own scent all.Over. _Stiles'.Body._ He must have taken a shower here, in Derek's shower, _he took a shower in Derek's shower._

It overwhelms him suddenly and it's a terrible idea when he reaches out to bring Stiles the last few inches into him. He practically nose dives into Stiles' neck, breaths in their entwined scents as his hands star out on his hips so that he's grounded against him.

Stiles has no objections, if the noise he makes sounds just as much surprised as it does happy. His hands grab at Derek shoulders, and he whispers sharply “don't ever do that to me again or I will kill you.”

His heart blimps over that last part and Derek lifts his head to see what Stiles' lips taste like.

-

Stiles is asleep in his bed, a mess of sheets and body limbs that almost looks like a painting; the contrast of his skin peaking out from the white of the sheets they had rucked up earlier.

Stiles' heartbeat is settling, slipping into slumber, when Derek decides to go to the desk.

He writes, **_I'm alive today_** , and the voice in his head just might sound happy.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on [tumblr!](http://raisesomehale.tumblr.com)


End file.
